


White Christmas

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:10:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5528960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras' car gets stuck in the snow on Christmas Eve, and Grantaire comes to rescue him, bringing him over to his apartment to warm up.</p><p>Enjolras could stay like this forever, in Grantaire's quiet company, soft and warm without a hint of pretense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Christmas

Enjolras shouldn’t have left the office so late, that much was obvious.

The white winds of snow had seemed festive when he occasionally glanced at them flurry down through his office window; now, they just seemed dangerous and chilling. Although he was only going ten or so miles per hour, they still made a snowy vortex in his headlights, completely shrouding his view of the road. Even if he could see – which he most certainly couldn’t – the roads had accumulated at least four inches of snow in the past hour, creating a blanket of white nothing, making it impossible to see where the road ended and the curb began.

As he slowly made his way through an empty intersection, Enjolras began rethinking his choice to even try to drive to Courfeyrac’s Christmas party in the first place; his car, while economical, was in no way built for the winter. He tried his best to keep a constant speed, but the snow grabbed at his tires, pulling him feet to the left and right, throwing him off course, and occasionally making his heart stop in fear. His apartment was within, albeit a rather long and decidedly uncomfortable in this weather, walking distance from his office – he definitely should have made his apologies to Courfeyrac. Better sorry than dead.

The windshield wipers flew back and forth, barely keeping up with the snow pelting against his only line of vision, flakes melting and disappearing just faster than they were being replaced by the blizzard above them.

“Come on bud,” he muttered to his car. “Five more miles, and you can take a nice sleep in Courfeyrac’s parking garage.”

The car inched forward, grabbing his wheel to the left this time, throwing the back of it off to the right, and Enjolras spent a moment being absurdly glad everyone else in the city seemed smart enough to stay off the roads and home for Christmas Eve.

“Okay, we’re okay,” he muttered, regaining some semblance of control. His fingernails dug into the old foam of his steering wheel, undoubtedly making permanent marks, telling the tale of a Christmas most likely forgotten.

His radio was on softly in the background, a forgotten lull completely tuned out when he focused on his slight panic. “Hey all your listeners out there on this very Merry Christmas Eve. I hope you’re enjoying the beautiful snow storm as much as we are here.”

“Fuck you,” Enjolras muttered, eyes glued to the road.

“To celebrate, here’s Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas.’”

“Oh fuck you,” Enjolras repeated, grinding his teeth. He took a hand off the wheel to punch the “off” button in rather petty retaliation – which was just a moment of inattention long enough for his car to roll into a bank of snow just slightly too deep – and his car grinded to a stop, lurching him forward.

“Oh no, no, no,” he yelled pointlessly, hitting his wheel. “Don’t do this to me, please don’t, come on, no.”

The little he knew about cars told him not to try to go forward, but instead to back out via the tracks he already made. He shifted it to reverse with a little more force than was necessary, and touched the gas as lightly as possible. The tires spun; the engine groaned.

“Please,” he mumbled to it, petting the wheel like it was a dog – he felt slightly insane, like he was turning into one of those macho weirdos in high school who hung around mechanic shop and talked to cars and smoked weed until it was a literal haze around them, but he couldn’t help it. “Just, please. For Christmas.”

He hit the gas again, and the tires spun faster, undoubtedly digging him into a bigger hole.

“I pay for your gas,” he guilted. “You’re obligated to drive me places.”

The car evidently disagreed, tires spinning, digging their own hole, decidedly choosing where it was going to spend Christmas – apparently, on the almost side of the road next to a closed down liquor store who had festively inflated a snowman drinking a beer bottle.

“You make me sad,” Enjolras stated, putting his head on his steering wheel. Sighing deeply, he reached over to his passenger’s seat, where a warm pair of gloves sat. Unfortunately, as it had been clear skies this morning, he hadn’t bothered with boots or a hat.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his car door, the bottom of it scraping against the snow that had already accumulated, an easy five inches. He stepped out, and cold winter slush immediately went down his work shoes, drenching his socks, making him wince. Pulling his coat tighter around him, Enjolras crouched down to look at the front tires, which were predictably in a hole of its own making, and surrounded by several inches of cold, mushy snow that was undoubtedly heavier than it looked. Flurries danced in front of Enjolras’ face, stinging his cheeks, blinding him, sending an instant chill up his spine. The side of his coat, the side facing the storm, was already blanket-white from the snow, completely covered in the fast moving weather.

He leaned up his car door, and looked skyward. A couple flakes fell into his eyes, and he blinked them away. The sky was black in the night, dotted with the fast-moving, ever changing snowflakes.

It was beautiful, he mused, even in its inconvenience.

Sighing again, and pulling his coat tighter, he leaned down to the wheel, and began to dig.

Rather quickly he realized that he would need to kneel, not crouch, if he ever was going to get any leverage. His knees instantly sunk in the snow, turning ice-cold, which he ignored in favor of pushing as much snow as he could out of the way of the tires.

He worked 360 around the tires, and was just about done with the first, the driver’s front, when he completely lost feeling in seven of his fingers. He climbed back in the vehicle, holding them in front of the heater venter, cursing when the blood flew back into this veins, making them prickle with the pain of reheating. Stepping back outside, he saw that his previous work was already starting to be snowed over. He made quick, if sloppy, work of the second tire, well aware that it was mostly likely pointless, and quickly shuffled back into his car.

His coat was completely white from snow, which was fading fast into a giant wet spot; his ears were tinged red and pulsed with the ache of cold; his fingers could barely bend; he couldn’t feel any of his toes; his socks were soaked through; his back was tense with the cold; and he somehow managed to get enough snow down the back of his shirt that he cold feel the melted snow re-freezing against his skin.

Closing his eyes, he shifted the car back into reverse, and tried once more, barely hitting the gas.

The car rocked slightly, before coming back to a halt.

“Santa,” he said, looking skyward. “If you can hear me, this would be a great time to magically give my car four-wheel drive.” He hit the gas; the tires spun. “No? Fine. Give that kid in California an easy-bake oven instead. That’s cool too.”

He tried once more, in rather vain hope, and the car rocked once more. Excitedly, he hit the gas, just a touch too hard, and it jumped backwards, into another, far deeper snow drift.

“Aw, fuck,” he said, placing his head on the wheel. Looking outside, the snowy winds were still coming, not having slowed in the slightest in the past twenty minutes. A small pile of snow had built up on his windshield since he had been outside.

He laid his head on the wheel, watching, for just a moment too long, before conceding defeat.

Grabbing his phone, and sending up a bout of thanks that it still had battery, he dialed.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac greeted, picking up immediately, obviously merry. “We were getting a little worried, man. You on your way?”

Behind him, there was the obvious sounds of a party, voices lit with laughter, the faint serenades of Frank Sinatra, the happy talking and conversing with close friends.

It’s just a second, but Enjolras felt such a strong moment of longing that he swore he felt his heart was connected with his tear ducts, it thudding with two precise pounds, as two tears built in his eyes.

It was stupid, so he brushed them away.

“I tried driving, but I got stuck right next to Perry street.”

“Are you okay?” Courfeyrac asked immediately, and Enjolras rather loved that he asked that particular question first.

“Yes,” Enjolras answered. “I’m completely fine. Just completely stuck. Would you mind sending someone out to get me? Assuming roadside assistance is closed on,” he glanced at the clock. “Nine PM on Christmas Eve.”

Courfeyrac yelled something rather unintelligible to the party, probably covering the mouthpiece. “I’m asking who can go pick you up,” he narrated.

“Thanks,” Enjolras said, a little belatedly. He waited in rather tired silence, listening to Courfeyrac relay his situation. He’s regained feeling in his ears and fingers, but his toes are still curiously dead to feeling.

“You still there?” Courfeyrac asked, suddenly getting back on the line.

Enjolras snorted. “Of course.”

“And you’re near Perry street?”

“Next to Lorenzo’s Liquor.”

Courfeyrac took a moment to tell the information to someone. “Okay, Grantaire’s on his way.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras repeated, not even surprised at this point. “Right. Of course.”

“Suck it up, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, not even the slightest bit repentant, and probably too loud. “He’s got the biggest truck. It apparently has something called four-low, which sounds like a T-Pain song, but apparently means that his car won’t get stuck in snow, go figure, so he’s the obvious choice.”

“Okay, whatever. I’ll be here.”

Courfeyrac made a soothing sound. “Just give him a few, Enjolras. It’ll be fine.”

“K,” Enjolras mumbled, and hit END, just to annoy Courfeyrac by not saying goodbye.

He clicked the radio back on, and Taylor Swift singing about giving her heart away just somehow felt like far too much juxtaposition for his current mood. He switched channels, and somehow didn't feel much more comfort about walking in a winter wonderland.

He was still idly switching channels every few seconds, unable to find a Christmas song that didn't seem mocking, head resting on his wheel, when he saw headlights coming straight for him. Head lifting, he watched the truck coast up, and stop not three feet from his car. The headlights cut through the night, highlighting the snow, making it appear like it’s falling much faster than it actually was against the plain black canvas sky.

Enjolras still wasn't really sure how lights do that to snow, and vaguely noted to look it up as he watched Grantaire hop out of the car. He was bundled in a massive winter jacket, obviously more winter-savvy than Enjolras.

He walked over to the driver’s side window, knocking on it. Enjolras looked over into his tired, smiling face, and found himself giving a soft smile back. He opened the car door, and Grantaire took a step back, accommodating him.

“Enjolras,” he greeted. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras replied with no heat.

“I didn’t say anything.” Grantaire smirked, and Enjolras found himself rolling his eyes before the words even leave Grantaire’s mouth. “I’m just a friend who randomly is coming to rescue you from Elsa’s clutches.”

“Let’s not,” Enjolras said, taking a step forward.

Grantaire made a small noise of surprise when Enjolras took a step forward, and Enjolras looked back, quirking an eyebrow. “It’s just,” he moved a hand, gesturing to Enjolras. “You’re wet.”

“What did you think I’d be after lying in the snow, trying to dig out my car?” Enjolras snapped, and immediately felt bad.

“It was a fact, Enjolras, not a judgment,” Grantaire said softly.

“Sorry,” Enjolras mumbled, looking at the ground, and means it. “This isn’t how I wanted to spend my Christmas Eve.”

“I bet,” Grantaire nodded. His fingers trailed to his own neck, and suddenly he was unraveling his scarf, the red and white candycane one Cosette knitted him for last year’s Secret Santa. “Take this,” he said, offering it.

It was a testament to how cold and unpleasant he felt that Enjolras took it from his hand wordlessly, wrapping it around his neck. He buried his nose in the soft yarn; it smelt like musk and eggnog, and Enjolras couldn't help but smile into it, glad it hid his mouth.

“Come on,” Grantaire said after a moment, tugging at his sleeve. “Let’s not stand in the snow.”

“What about my car?”

“We’ll have to leave it. I don’t have my tow equipment, and no one will be available for the holiday. And there’s no way we are going to be able to dig it out tonight, though I’d be happy to try if it makes you feel better."

Enjolras catalogued Grantaire silently, making his way from his heavy work boots to his soft black hat, and wondered internally what the chances were that if he asked Grantaire to get on his knees and dig in the snow, he’d do it, despite it having an almost zero probability of working.

Rather low, he decided, and shrugged. “No,” he said finally. “We can leave it.”

“’Kay,” Grantaire answered.

They made their way to his truck, and Enjolras clambered in, immediately throwing his hands in front of the heater. His fingers start to tingle. All the snow was melting in his hair, and he was starting to feel it on his scalp. He sent a small glance over to Grantaire, who seemed to be staring at him, calculating.

“What?” he asked.

“Do you even want to go to the party?”

Enjolras put his hands down, surprised. “Where else would we go?”

“You just seem tired,” Grantaire commented, which was admittedly true. Not only did he spend about a half hour digging in snow, but he also came off a ten hour shift – a long, shitty ending to a long, difficult month.

“Where else would we go?” Enjolras repeated, this time with far more curiosity.

“My apartment,” Grantaire shrugged, and it seemed a little forced. “You could take a hot shower, clean up a bit. If you wanted to, we could head over after you’ve warmed and comforted up.”

“A hot shower sounds nice,” Enjolras admitted.

“That I can provide,” Grantaire said, quirking a smile. He turned the ignition, the engine turning over, and pulled out onto the road. His truck plowed through the winter wonderland, and Enjolras couldn't help but to cross his arms, a little petulantly annoyed at how easily Grantaire could maneuver through.

A rather uncomfortable silence settled, even with Carol of the Bells in the background filling the open, quiet air. Enjolras couldn't think of a word to break it, a conversation opener that didn't sound contrived or forced, no matter if it was or wasn't.

Grantaire seemed uncomfortable too, Enjolras noted silently. His fingers drummed against the wheel, offbeat to the song. His eyes darted across the road a little faster and more frequently than necessary, and his left foot tapped against the floor unrythmatically.

He looked tired too, but in a softer way than Enjolras was. Like it’s more ingrained, more thorough. Less due to a prolonged lack of sleep and a more sustained, long condition.

Enjolras pulled his glance away, determined not to make the atmosphere even more weird, and leaned his head up against the window.

Outside, the snow was piling up fast.

 

Grantaire pulled into this apartment lot, and they both tumbled out of the truck. Grantaire lived on floor five, much to Enjolras’ calves chagrin, and he was embarrassed to say he’s breathing rather hard by the time they made it to the wreath adorned door. Grantaire seemed completely unaffected, slipping the key into the lock, and walking through. He toed off his shoes, and Enjolras followed suit.

After he made quick work of his sopping socks, stuffing them down into his shoes, Enjolras glanced up, and took stock of the place.

“Very festive,” he commented, looking around. Colored lights followed the perimeter of the room, the only lights on other than the tree, casting a warm, dull glow around the room that said 'Christmas' in an odd way only lighting can; there were small trinkets around, such as little Santas and reindeer, but also, Enjolras noted with mild surprise, a small nativity set up underneath the tree. He wasn’t sure if it was due to Grantaire’s Jewish heritage or Bossuet’s religion, but he wanted to ask. The room was graced with the occasional garland, and icicles hang from the ceiling, as well as crudely cut paper snowflakes, obviously homemade. In the center of it all was a large Christmas tree, so tall that the top hit the ceiling and started to bend over again; it was adorned with hundreds of ornaments and baubles, all ugly but obviously well loved, and it stood bright and shimmering. Oddly, it made Enjolras heart ache slightly.

“I’m glad it meets your Christmas standards,” Grantaire said, bringing Enjolras back to the present. He had taken off his coat now, revealing an sweatshirt with an alien head wearing a Christmas hat, and Enjolras huffed slightly, amused.

“Aliens are now interested a celebration on planet they don’t live on that only the half the world really participates in that celebrates a man who may or may not have existed thousands of years ago on, again, a planet they don’t live on?”

“Don’t discriminate,” Grantaire said, smiling now. “Don’t oppress the hypothetical Martians, Enjolras. They can get merry and jolly with the rest of us if they so choose.”

“Of course,” Enjolras nodded, rolling his eyes. “My mistake.”

Grantaire smiled softly at him, before looking him over, head to foot. “Let me get you some dry clothes. I can wash yours while you’re in the shower, unless you do anything special with them.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Regular wash should be fine, thank you.”

“Good, because all I got are bubbles, so you’d be shit out of luck.”

Enjolras followed him into what he knew to be Grantaire’s bedroom, despite having only been in there once before to pick up a book for Feuilly. It was cluttered, but not so much that it was impassable.

Grantaire handed him a pair of dark, fleece sweatpants, and a large band t-shirt that Enjolras only vaguely recognized from Grantaire wearing it before. It was soft and warm, and Enjolras buried his hand in it, fingers clutching the soft material.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Of course. You know where the bathroom is?”

“Across the hall.” Enjolras gave him a small smile, before making his way into the bathroom. When he made it in, he closed the door, leaning up against it. He let out a long breath he swore he’s been holding since he walked into the apartment.

“Shit,” he cursed, bending his head. “Shit.”

The shower was nice and hot, completely warming him up from head to toe, reminding him that he had been basically cuddling with the snow for a half hour, but reassuring him that it’s okay now, he’s warm, he’s taken care of.

There’s Axe and Old Spice shampoo, and Enjolras wasn’t sure which one he hoped was Grantaire’s.

When he stepped out, dripping, he took his time drying off, towling his hair until it was a massive frizzy lump on his head. He spent a moment being embarrassed before concluding that Grantaire had seen him in far worse states before, and if he were a true friend, he wouldn’t care what his hair looked like.

He still felt slightly self-conscious, despite that.

He dressed in the clothes, and they were obscenely baggy, despite the fact that Enjolras was almost positive he had an inch on Grantaire.

He padded out of the bedroom, and found Grantaire on the couch, curled up into a little ball, _It’s a Wonderful Life_ on TV. He obviously hadn't seen Enjolras yet, and was mouthing along with the words, looking content and calm in a way that he just wasn't when other people are around, and Enjolras found himself taking an unsteady breath, unaccountably upset that he just wasn't allowed to see this side of him, that his content, personal side was hidden, available to some and some only, a level of friendship that Enjolras just couldn't seem to unlock no matter how hard he pushed and prodded and tried.

He looked away, studying a Christmas stocking on the mantelpiece, swallowing down a lump in his throat he wished weren't there, and he wished whatever god decided to make him severely emotional today would go kindly fuck himself in his own self-aggrandizement.

Pushing it down, he took a step forward, and Grantaire swiveled, despite the fact Enjolras was sure he didn’t make any noise.

“Hey,” he greeted. “Shower up to code?” He immediately sat up into a proper position, and Enjolras wanted to grab his legs and fold him, put him back into his little ball of self-comfort. Instead he smiled.

“Perfect, thank you.”

“I made you some hot chocolate,” Grantaire said, pointing at the counter. Enjolras followed his finger, and found a large steaming mug. “Just in case you wanted to warm up your insides too.”

“Thank you.” Enjolras took it, marveling in its warmth. He made his way over to the couch, and debated internally with himself over whether to sit directly next to Grantaire or on the seat over, and when he chose the latter, cursed himself for being a coward.

“We can leave,” Grantaire said suddenly. “I mean, your clothes are in the dryer, so we’d have to come back for them, but we can go if you want to go to the party.”

“I’m in no rush to get to the party.”

Grantaire sent him a sad smile. “Holiday’s getting you down as well?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I suppose. I’m just a bit tired.”

“And I assume you mean not only in the I-got-two-hours-of-sleep-and-am-running-on-coffee-and-self-punishment way.”

Enjolras hummed.

“Well, I’m content to stay in the rest of the night if you are. Everyone else is staying the night at Courf’s because of the snow, and I have no great desire to get back.”

“You’d be okay spending your Christmas Eve holed up with me?”

Grantaire looked over, taking Enjolras in, and he suddenly felt absurdly self-conscious about how he tucked his feet under his legs. He blew on his hot chocolate, not meeting Grantaire’s steady gaze.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said after a long moment. “That’d be fine with me.”

 

They finished  _It’s a Wonderful Life,_ and Grantaire offered to make some Christmas fettuccine. Enjolras watched him make his way around the kitchen.

“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” crooned in the background, and with the soft lighting, and the tree, and the lights, and Grantaire’s sweater, and the snow falling fast and silent outside the window, that general feeling of warm spread somewhere in the vicinity of Enjolras’ lower chest. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off of Grantaire, who was doing nothing more than stirring water at this point, and Enjolras couldn't help smiling fondly, and his chest was so tight he felt his hands clutch against the mug, so hard he worried it will break, and he’s biting his lip, and—

And he’d chalk it up to Christmas spirit, but it’s not the whole of it, it couldn't have been, since this all started sometime in May when Grantaire had helped that little girl who was lost in the park, and escalated when he heard Joly give a potential roommate a glowing recommendation, and kept going and going and going— 

“Stop staring,” Grantaire said softly, and Enjolras freezed. “Say what you need to say and be done with it.”

“It’s not bad staring,” Enjolras said, hoping his voice didn't give away how his heart had started pounding so hard that he could feel it in his veins.

“This has been a nice night, Enjolras, but it’s rather hurt by the way you’ve been avoiding me for the past three weeks.”

And that’s—

That’s true.

“It’s not bad avoiding,” Enjolras tried, and this made Grantaire snort, and turn. Enjolras noticed he’s wearing purple socks, and he couldn't figure out why he didn’t notice before.

“How is avoiding someone ever a good thing?”

“You didn’t do anything to make me avoid you,” Enjolras amended.

Grantaire shook his head, curls bouncing. Enjolras eyes tracked it, his heart still pounding – and for some reason, he just knew, he knew this exact moment was going to be seared into his brain forever in perfect detail, down to the moment in the song and the lighting and the flooring and the look in Grantaire’s eyes, just like when he saw an aardvark for the first time at the zoo, or when his father slammed the wooden front door in his face when he was sixteen.

“Look, we can ignore it for Christmas’ sake, which is fine. You can eat with me, and you can sleep on my couch, and then we can work on your car in the morning, and go back to our normal lives and deal with it when it inevitably blows up.”

It was quiet a moment, and Bing Crosby dreaming of a white Christmas started flowing from the radio, lulling the atmosphere quieter.

“And option two?” Enjolras prompted softly.

Grantaire sighed heavily, and shrugged. “You could just tell me, in the spirit of festivity, what the fuck it is that’s up, and we could deal with it in the adult like manner we really should, but never do, and use Christmas as an excuse to work through it rationally instead of letting it become this whole thing.”

Enjolras stared at him a moment, at how he swallowed roughly, at how his eyes kept darting side to side, at how he looked sad, why did he look sad—

“How about this,” he said after a moment. “We eat, and finish the day off. Before bed, I’ll tell you. That way, if you get upset, or if you don’t want to speak to me anymore, or,” he shrugged, “or anything else, you can go to bed, and I can sleep on your couch, and we won’t be forced to look at each for another couple hours.”

Grantaire evaluated this for a moment, before conceding. “Fair.”

 

The fettuccine was delicious, as was the holiday fudge they made after. They had descended into a rather contrived calmness, enjoying one another’s presence in a way they rarely let themselves on a normal day, relishing in their banter and mutual compatibility they always had as friends but often ignored in spirit of debate and other pressures. Even if it was a willful ignorance, just waiting for the chip to fall, Enjolras reveled in it – so strongly, in fact, that he more than once found himself staring at Grantaire, having to bite his tongue to keep the emotions in.

He was able to have fun with near everyone – he was not able to feel himself and feel calm with near anyone. It was a mutual landing ground he only really had with Grantaire and Combeferre, and he wished viscerally that Grantaire would give it to him along with his proffered friendship of banter and antagonism and plain silly fun; if only he was allowed this all the time.

 

“There’s probably a foot out there,” Grantaire commented. The window had a haze of frost on it that Grantaire’s wiped off, revealing a roofed canopy completely blanketed with snow. It was still falling, but softer now, gentle.

“Do you think my car survived?”

Grantaire sent him a smile. “I’m sure we can tow it out. As long as you have good sealing, it should be fine, if maybe a little worse for wear.”

“Thank you for picking me up,” Enjolras murmured. “And letting it be a soft Christmas instead of, well, you know.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire said back. “It’s what I needed, I just didn’t want to do it alone.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“No, I guess I didn’t.”

Grantaire glanced at the tree they are standing next to, and bends down. He grabbed a small, white gift underneath, sloppily wrapped with a lopsided bow on top. He offered it to Enjolras, who took it with the frown.

“What’s this?”

“A present.”

Enjolras looked down, and saw his name on the tag.

“Shouldn’t you have brought my present to Courfeyrac’s?”

“I did,” Grantaire said. “This is a different one.”

Enjolras clutched the package tighter. “Why do I get two?”

Grantaire shrugged, and looked away. “Cause, I guess I thought you deserved it. Just open the damn gift.”

Enjolras did, reverently, revealing a knitted hat. He flipped it over, hands moving over the uneven stitching of the red yarn. When he looked up, Grantaire looked embarrassed.

“I didn’t bring it because I wasn’t sure I was even going to give it to you,” he confessed. “I made it because I noticed that you never wear a hat, and your ears are always red. But it was only my second hat I ever knitted, and it’s a bit shit.”

“Thank you, Grantaire,” Enjolras said. He stepped forward, and laced his arms around his neck, pulling him into a soft, quick hug. “I appreciate it.”

“Welcome,” Grantaire answered. Enjolras was only a foot from him, and his heart was starting to pound.

“Two minutes to midnight,” Grantaire said. “I think it’s the time for confession, or Santa is going to miss my house as I'm still awake.”

“It’s an apartment,” Enjolras corrected distractedly.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire prompted, and Enjolras just fell – his cowardice fell, his tiredness fell, his confusion fell, his avoidance fell, his heart fell – and he let himself fall.

“I’ve been keeping my distance because I just don’t know what to say to you anymore. I barely even know how to act around you; I don’t even know what normal is anymore. It’s not the same and I just, I’ve feared that if I’m with you a lot, you’ll figure me out.”

“Figure what out?”

“That some weird place along the line I fell for you.”

Grantaire stares, his eyes wide and green, unblinking. “Fell for me what?”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“I did not figure that out.”

“Yeah, Courfeyrac was worried you’d come up with other reasons in your head, that I wasn’t being obvious enough, though I certainly felt I was.”

“You were not being obvious,” Grantaire said faintly.

“Oh,” Enjolras said. “Good to know.”

The Christmas clock behind them dung that it’s midnight, one dong, two dong, three dong –

And Grantaire steps forward, right into his space.

“What exactly are you saying?”

“Should I go to bed? Do you not want to see me anymore? Because I understand—”

“What,” Grantaire said seriously. “Exactly are you saying? I need you to spell it out for me, like I’m an idiot.”

Dong.

Dong.

Dong.

“I love you. Or am in love with you. I guess the distinction matters.”

Dong.

Grantaire eyes were wild and large, and they were getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger – and there was his mouth, warm and large and dry, but the sweet sweet pressure melted Enjolras, like a chocolate bar on a warm stove, and he’s falling into Grantaire, one hand on his shoulder, the other in his soft, soft hair, and it must have been Old Spice, he smelled so warm, and his shoulder was so firm—

“Is that okay?” Grantaire asked, pulling back an inch, his warm breath hitting Enjolras mouth. He smelled like fudge. Like Christmas.

“Mmm,” Enjolras mumbled, leaning forward again.

The managed to find their way to the couch, falling down onto it with no grace, making Grantaire laugh as Enjolas slams into his chest.

“I’m too tired tonight for anything,” Grantaire said. “And this is too new. I want to make sure it’s real, and not some bizarre chocolate induced illusion.”

“Real.” Enjolras looked up at him, his face so close. His heart was pounding, but in a warm way – he’s lit up, just like the tree three feet from him, just like the streetlight outside the window highlighting the fallen snow, just like the pine candle on the mantle.

Grantaire kissed the top of his head, and pulled Enjolras against his chest. Enjolras listened as his heartbeat slows, watched as his eyelids drooped and fell shut, felt his arm go slack around him.

He burrowed in to the hole of Grantaire’s arms and chest, hooking himself into the spot, watching the snow come down, silent and discreet.

 

When morning hit, the winter sun coming through the window, waking both from their slumber, Grantaire looked down at where Enjolras was snuggled next to him.

“Merry Christmas.” His voice was soft and rumbly, like he could use to gargle.

“Merry Christmas,” Enjolras repeated back, laying his head on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Real?” Grantaire asked.

“Real.” Enjolras confirmed.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, my friends.


End file.
